Page 16 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

Mom takes off her blazer, with the name tag for the bank she manages on the lapel, and drapes it on one of the chairs at the counter. She had to take off work too, but at least she has personal time saved up. “We’re really proud of you, baby.” Her brown eyes crease at the sides as she beams at me and clutches her hands to her chest. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t know exactly what for. The whole meeting was focused on me and yet I stayed pretty much silent the entire time. That’s what I usually do, just smiling and nodding when it’s appropriate—Ms. Thompson makes it pretty easy.

The only time I wanted to say something, cameso closeto finally opening my mouth, was when Ms. Thompson started saying something about how she wanted to make sure I didn’t overuse my text-to-speech app, that I needed to eventually phase it out. I wanted to ask why I needed to phase out an accommodation if it’s working for me. Because, like, I’m always going to be dyslexic. And if it works for me, then why is it a bad thing? Why is the goal tonotneed it?

But I chickened out. Kept quiet, kept it moving.

Ever since New Year’s, I’ve been wanting to try out the new Reggie that I put on that night. The Reggie that was self-assured, confident in who he is. It didn’t work out for me then, but maybeit could help in some other areas, you know? I’ve stopped hushing Yobani when he talks about the D&D campaign all loud at lunch. And one day I even stayed in the living room for five minutes when Eric’s friends came over instead of leaving immediately.

Okay, yeah, just little things. But still! It’s a weird thrill to be someone so different from myself, if even for a moment.

And I don’t have it in me to do the big things—not again, not yet. The things that might make everyone around me look at me like Delilah did that night...

“You’re working really hard,” Mom continues, before I can let my brain go too far down that road. “We know it’s not easy—that the way school works isn’t always set up for you. But you are doing your best every day. Ms. Thompson made that very clear.”

“She’s right, son. We see you putting in the effort, not giving up,” Dad says. He claps me on the shoulder with one of his massive hands, and his warm, earthy scent fills my nose. It reminds me of driving around in his pickup that year I was diagnosed with dyslexia. His schedule is more flexible than Mom’s, so he’s the one that ended up taking me to all the evaluations and second opinions before we finally had a name for my reading struggles, and a plan. And he always reminded me that it wasn’t something wrong with me, but something wrong with the way I was being taught—that all these tests would help the teachers figure out how to do right by me.

“That tenacity, that... thatgumption. I know you’re tired of me telling you this, Reggie, but those traits would do you well in some sort of sport.” He rubs a hand over his mostly gray hair andshakes his head. “It doesn’t have to be competitive or even a team one, but maybe running or something. You’ve got a marathoner’s mindset, and if you just took half the time that you give to those, uh, dragon games...”

And poof, just like that, all those proud, happy feelings are gone. Dad may not outright diss me like Eric, and yes, Iknowthere were some compliments there. But he can never quite let me forget that what I like, how I choose to spend my time, is wrong.

“So, Reggie, when does your shift start?” Mom says, changing the subject so we don’t fall into this same tired conversation right now.

I look at the clock on the microwave, happy to avoid Dad’s gaze. “In about an hour. I probably better leave soon.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure it’ll be busy tonight with the holiday.” Her voice is overly bright and cheery. “You’ll get a lot of tips?”

I really hope no one’s bringing their dates to Cultured, the chain yogurt shop where I work, for Valentine’s Day. But at least if they do, it will be some good entertainment to make the night pass by faster.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t get the night off for a Valentine’s date of your own,” she continues. “Is... Leela busy?”

Mom doesn’t blatantly disapprove of my D&D passion like Dad does, but I swear it’s only because my Saturday sessions ensure I get regular contact with at least one person of the opposite sex.

“Mom, Leela likes girls,” I remind her, for like the billionth time. She nods. “Well, maybe she can introduce you to one of those girls. The ones she’s not with, I mean. Or, you know, maybe youcould meet some if you weren’t so busy every week with...”

She trails off, seeming to catch herself before she brings back the uncomfortable conversation we just narrowly avoided.

“Well, your daddy is taking me to that new wine bar over on Willow. So don’t wait up!” she says, pointing at him and shimmying her shoulders.

“Oh I am, am I?” he laughs.

“Yep, and then we’re going to pick up some of those little Bundt cakes from that place in Bixby Knolls after. I already pre-ordered a dozen.”

“Now, how do you know I don’t got something already planned, Mae?”

She cradles his face in her cheeks and smiles up at him. “Because I told you I didn’t want to do anything tonight, and after twenty years, I know you still took me at my word.”

“BecauseIknow whatever I did plan would be canceled for what you really wanted to do anyway.” He shakes his head and kisses her, and I take that as my cue to head out early.

“We love you, baby!” Mom calls after me.

“I love you too.”

Fifteen minutes later, I have on my teal work polo, and I walk out to the curb where Bessie, my 1999 Ford Escort cornflower-blue station wagon, is parked. She isn’t pretty—with her dented bumper and dishwater-colored interior—but she gets the job done. And I bought her all on my own with my Cultured paychecks and tips.

I slide my key into the lock, jimmying it to just the right spot—Bessie is temperamental like that. And while I’m waiting forher to warm up, I find myself quickly pulling out my phone and navigating to the app, the profile, that I’ve been checking daily. Okay, hourly. I look at it so much that I swear my fingers click there all on their own. It’s, like, muscle memory at this point. And I had to resist all through the IEP meeting and the time with my parents after, because I definitely couldn’t deal with their prying eyes and judgey questions.

Fun Gi’s Instagram page doesn’t have any new posts since I last checked (likely because they all have lives... unlike me), so I scroll to my favorite video: Delilah’s debut on New Year’s Eve.

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